Cinderella in Skates (10 page)

He breaks the kiss and gently sets me down.

"Congratulations," he says, and I laugh and look away.

"For kissing you or for making the team?"

He grins, a blush coloring his cheeks. "Both, obviously. But I think one is a little more important."
 

"Which one?"

"I'll leave that for you to figure out."

"Erica isn't going to be happy about this."
 

"Who?"
 

I realize then that I haven't told him about the team's top goalie and her apparent -- and inexplicable -- vendetta against me.
 

"It's nothing," I say, deciding to keep the sweetness of proving Erica wrong to myself, at least for now. "Hey, I better get to class. And so should you."
 

He glances at the clock hanging over the door and nods. "You're probably right."
 

"Thanks for being here," I say quietly.
 

"Wouldn't have missed it for anything," he replies. "I'll see you tomorrow night." He leans down and brushes his lips against mine before hitting me with a smile and turning to walk out of the rink.

I stand there, too stunned to move, as the door closes and echoes throughout the empty arena.
 

I glance over at the list on the bulletin board one more time and smile at my name, right there with Erica's, like I belong or something.
 

***

"I knew you would," Dad says over dinner that night. I wanted to wait to tell him the news in person so I could see his reaction but he doesn't even put his fork down.
 

"How wonderful!" Mom's at least a little bit more enthusiastic as she ruffles my hair while she walks back to her seat with a second glass of wine. "We're very proud, Natalie."
 

No one says anything else. Dad's back to shoveling sliced ham into his mouth.

"That's it?" I ask.

He lifts an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"That's all you're going to say? I spent the last month doing nonstop hockey and that's all the congratulations I get?"
 

Dad shrugs. "You haven't really
done
anything."
 

"I made the team!"
 

"And now what?" he asks, finally resting his fork against the side of his plate and focusing on me. "What's next?"

"Next? I'll go practice and games and stuff, I guess. I don't know. I made the team. That's what you asked me to do."
 

He stares at me for a few seconds before picking up his fork and going back to eating. I frown, suddenly not hungry or sure what to think.
 

Mom eyes me for a few seconds, then takes a bite of her salad, and I can't help but wonder if she's trying to tell me something but I have no idea what.
 

No one says anything as the sound of chewing fills the kitchen, but I've lost my appetite. Something's not sitting right with me and it isn't the food.

I push back from the table and carry my plate over to the sink. As I stand there rinsing it, I stare out the window into our snow-covered backyard, a sight I'd never see back home in Arizona.

And that's when it hits me.

I'm leaving, yes, and I can't wait to get back to the desert, but I'm here
now
. In Wisconsin. With snow and ice and hockey and cheese and Shane.
 

Maybe that's what Dad's mad about. I'm constantly talking about Arizona, about going back, not focusing at all on what's in front of me.
 

And yeah, I made the team but I'm the back-up goalie. I'm not the best, and that's okay, but I'm not even trying to get better. I'm fine with being second string when it doesn't even have to be that way.

Why not try to start while I'm here and I have the chance?

Plus, there's the whole Shane thing. If I tell him I want to train to become the starter, well, doesn't that mean he'll keep coaching me and I'll get extra time with him?

Maybe that's the best reason of all to keep going.
 

I shut off the faucet, leave my plate on the drying rack and turn to face my parents who are murmuring with their heads huddled close together.
 

"I'm not done yet."
 

Dad looks over at me, eyebrow raised. "What?"

"Why stop now, right?" I say. "I'm going to keep working with Shane. Who knows? Maybe I'll even get to start."

A small smile twitches at the corners of my father's mouth.

"Well," he says. "Well. Very good. That's a fine idea, Natalie."

I glance over at Mom, who's nodding back at me, and I know this is exactly what my parents want me to say.
 

And as I stand there staring out at the yard, I realize it's exactly what I want to be doing.
 

I dig out my phone from the back pocket of my pants. Shane had sent me a text earlier that he was sad our practices were over and I hadn't known how to respond. But now I have the perfect thing to say as I type out that I want to keep working at hockey on my own (and with him) to eventually try and unseat Erica Wunders.

His response comes back quickly.
 

For real? U know I'd love to!

Then you're in luck,
I type back.
Because I'm still in need of a coach.
 

You've come to the right place. I'm excited.
 

Me too.
 

We'll get on it next week. Monday.

Sounds good. Thanks, Shane.
 

Anything for my favorite AZ girl.
 

I smile and tuck my phone back into my pocket. I've got to get started on my calc homework and if I don't cut myself off now, I'll never stop talking to him.

Everything is falling into place. I have a date with Shane tomorrow night. I've got hockey, I've got Arizona and I've got my coach.

What more do I really need?

CHAPTER NINE

"This is more than just a winter festival," I say later that night as Shane and I walk into the celebration at the Madison fairgrounds. "It's like a Christmas party."
 

"Yeah, I guess it is pretty festive," he says.
 

It's only five o'clock but the darkening sky is a sign that it's already early December.

 
When Shane had mentioned the winter festival, I hadn't been too sure what to expect. I only knew about it beforehand because my dad said he used to love going when he lived in Wisconsin. But this wasn't what I imagined.

A wonderfully tall pine tree decorated in bright colorful bulbs stands in the middle of the fairgrounds, red and green wooden boxes painted to look like presents gathered at its base. Lit-up snowflakes cling to every lamppost. Garlands hang everywhere, and the light layer of snow on the ground, just deep enough to hide the blades of grass trying to poke through, makes everything look that much more like one of those Christmas paintings I'd always seen in Arizona but could never really imagine living in.
 

It's like my own personal winter wonderland designed just for me.
 

I take a deep breath. I already love it.
 

"This is unbelievable," I say quietly.
 

Shane looks over at me with raised eyebrows. "This? We haven't even done the fun stuff yet."

I stop to spin around and take it all in. "But I've never seen anything like this."

"Really? What, you guys don't do Christmas out there in Arizona?"
 

I shake my head. "Not like this. Not with real snow and gloves and hats and scarves and winter boots. This feels different. Real."
 

There's a funny look on Shane's face, like he's thinking about saying something but isn't sure whether he should keep quiet instead.

"Anyway," I go on, "I love it."
 

He smiles. "Good. I knew you would. Are you hungry?"

"I could eat."
 

"Brats or hot dogs?"
 

"Brats?"
 

"Yeah, you know, bratwurst," he says, an amused expression on his face.

"Never had it."
 

"Rule number one about living in Wisconsin: No matter what you do, never admit that."
 

I grin. "Well, let's fix it, then."

"Yeah? You'll try it?"

"Sure. When in Rome and all."
 

He leads me over to a food tent and hands me a brat wrapped in foil. I open it and start to take a bite when he reaches out and puts a hand on my arm.

"Wait, wait, wait," he says. "Don't eat that yet."
 

"Is something wrong with it?"
 

"You can't have it plain. So much to learn," he says, a half-smile on his face. "Follow me."
 

We walk over to a condiment station where Shane quizzes me on my likes and dislikes and ignores me when I tell him that sauerkraut grosses me out.

"Can't have a brat without kraut," he says, handing it back to me.

I stare down at it. "Suddenly this doesn't look so good."
 

"Trust me. I'll even buy you a hot dog if you hate it. Ready?"
 

I shrug. "What the heck, right?"
 

He lifts his brat to mine in a toast. "Cheers!" he says, and I burst out laughing.
 

"Is that another Wisconsin thing I'm missing?" I ask.

"Nope. Just a Shane thing."
 

I nod and watch him for a second as he tears into his brat before I take a careful bite out of mine.

"Well?" he asks, and I realize he's watching me just as I watched him.

"You know," I say after I swallow, "if this is Wisconsin, I don't hate it."
 

He smiles at me and we finish our brats in comfortable, easy silence.
 

"If you liked dinner, you're going to love dessert," he tells me as we start to walk through the festival.

"What's that?"

"You'll see later. Come on, I thought we'd go play some games."
 

"Games?"
 

"Are you totally new to festivals or something? You're lucky I don't sign you up for the dunk tank after all this."
 

My eyes widen slightly. "There's a dunk tank? It's 25 degrees!"
 

He shrugs. "Makes it more fun."
 

Shane stops in front of a booth with a big black piece of wood covered in splotches of colored paint hanging from the back wall. He reaches into his back pocket, digs out his wallet and hands the girl attending the station a couple of dollars.

"What's this?" I ask.
 

She bends down and opens the door to what looks like a mini-fridge and pulls out...snowballs?
 

"Only my favorite carnival game ever."
 

"I've never seen a snowball before."
 

"I don't even really know what to do with that information," he says, looking over at me with a smile. "That's so weird to me."
 

I shrug. "Just like you've never gone swimming outside in December, right?"
 

He nods. "Touche."
 

The girl places five snowballs on a metal tray resting on the ledge in front of us.
 

"Want me to show you?" Shane asks.

I raise an eyebrow. "Well, considering I don't know what this game is, I think that might be a good idea."
 

He smiles. "Okay. The point of the game is to guess the color of paint that's in the snowballs."
 

I frown. "What?"

"There are five different colors," says Shane. "You pick the color you think is in each snowball, throw it at the black board and if you're right, you win. The more you get right, the better the prize."
 

"That's it?"
 

"It's fun."
 

"But how do you get good at it?"
 

He shrugs. "It's a game of luck, but I guess if you want to be really sneaky you can try and figure out how much of each color is already on the board and go from there. They make equal amounts of each color."
 

I nod slowly. "Alright, let's see how it's done."

"Choice?" the girl asks him.
 

"I'll go with purple." He picks up the first snowball, winds his arm and lets it fly at the black board. It hits the wood with a thud and red snow explodes everywhere. I jump back, sure I'm about to get covered in paint.
 

Shane looks over at me and laughs.
 

"Nice one," I tell him.

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh, you think you can do better than me?"
 

"I know I can."
 

"We'll see about that." He picks up another snowball and looks at the booth attendant. "Orange." He throws it and orange paint splashes the board.
 

"Lucky guess," I say, and he grins.
 

"Green."
 

It's purple.
 

"Green," he says again, and he's right.
 

"Last one," I tell him. "Better not blow this."
 

"Blue."
 

It's red again, and I smile.
 

"So I just have to get three right? No big deal."
 

Shane hands the girl another couple of dollars and she places five snowballs in front of me. I think about the colors that have just splashed on the board.
 

"Blue," I say.

When it hits the board in a mess of blue snow, Shane narrows his eyes. "Beginner's luck."
 

"That's one. Red."
 

Red paint flies out of the snowball and I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling too hard.
 

"Purple."

This time, it's orange and I frown.
 

"That's more like it," Shane says.